OUTCOME: NONVIABLE OFFSPRING (STILLBORN, 1994; MISCARRIAGE, 1996, 1997)
NOTES: Recommend alternate strategy for bloodline preservation.
The next line is in all caps, a different pen.
"EMBRYO TRANSFER AUTHORIZED. IVF: SUBJECT AMARA B. MARCUS, DOB 7-19-2003."
My mouth goes dry. I read it again. "Embryo transfer"—like I’m cattle. Like I’m a fucking science project.
There’s more, tucked behind a medical chart. A handwritten note, torn from a notepad:
“Dalton is not to be considered heir. Mother was a substitute; consult with Board if any doubts arise. Maintain Amara as primary successor.”
I feel like my skull is filling with cement. Everything is heavy. My mother never talked about the pregnancies. Dalton was born to a different woman, a different mother, a scandal no one in my family ever admitted to. I remember the way he used to look at me—like I was the favorite, and he was the shame. I remember asking my father about it once, and him saying, "You’re the only one who matters."
Now I know why.
I flick to the back of the folder. There’s a small envelope, sealed. I pry it open. Inside is a slip of paper, just one line:
“See file: RUNNER ERASURE 2016.”
I look up. The walls of the records room tilt for a second. My vision goes blurry, then sharp again.
I find the file, black folder, thick with paper. The label is in the same neat script.
INSIGNIA: WESTPOINT ACADEMY
SUBJECT: RUNNER ERASURE
YEAR: 2016
The first page is a list of names. Women’s names, some with a line through them, some circled. In the margin, in red pen: "ERASED." Next to the circled names, a date and a note: "COMPLIANT," "BREEDING," "TRANSFERRED."
I scan down the page. One name—CASEY GREENWOOD—has three stars next to it, and the word "SUICIDE" underlined.
There are photos attached. Most are faces, clipped from yearbooks, smiling and oblivious. On some, someone has scratched out the eyes with a ballpoint pen. There are notes: "Failure to produce. Failure to comply. Failure to breed." Some pages are stamped "EXPUNGED," the letters so dark they bleed through to the next sheet.
I take pictures of every page, my hands moving on their own. The camera shutter is loud in the silence. I want to cry, but it feels useless. There’s nothing left in me to mourn.
I keep flipping. Some files are older, yellowed with age. Some are recent. I find Dahlia’s, Eve’s, Isolde’s, Ophelia’s. I snap a photo of each, just in case. The back of the drawer is full of empty folders, waiting for the next crop of girls.
I realize, with a sudden jolt, that most of the names here never graduated. Most are just gone.
I hear footsteps in the hallway outside.
I freeze.
They’re not running, not sneaking—just walking, heavy and certain. I scramble for a hiding spot, my mind blank with panic. The only place is behind the tall cabinet at the end of the row, wedged tight against the wall. I slide in, and try to calm my breathing.
The door to the records room opens with a hydraulic sigh.
Two men enter. I know the voices instantly.
My father. Mr. Steele.
I hold my breath.
Marcus is speaking first, voice cold and clipped. "She’ll comply, especially after today’s exam. She’s too soft to rebel."
